Let Sleeping Sorcerers Lie
by Pineapple Bacardi
Summary: Merlin finds the whole thing horribly ridiculous. He's not even that sick. Merlin/Arthur. Future!fic.


**A/N: **Here, have some fluffy, domestic future happiness. It's on me.

X

Merlin finds the whole thing horribly ridiculous.

He's not even _that _sick. Maybe he _did _throw up a few times, once during a counsel meeting, and yes, he got a bit dizzy when he stood up last night during the feast and almost blacked out, _almost, _but he _didn't. _Everyone is acting like he is dying. And just because he's had a few coughing fits, yes maybe nearly to the point where he can't breathe, but really it doesn't mean Merlin's sick.Other than that, Merlin thinks everyone is overreacting. Merlin is not sick enough to be forced to spend a whole day in bed, even if it is an enormous bed. It's a bit ridiculous really. Very ridiculous.

Arthur leaves Merlin's bedchambers at the crack of dawn to go and practice with the knights, dressing silently, leaving with a quick kiss against Merlin's temple and soft warning of "Merlin, you are staying in this bed all day, as your King, I command it." Merlin is too tired to argue. Gaius wakes him up a few hours later to examine him. Conclusion: Merlin is sick. Very sick. And should stay bedridden all day. Ridiculous. Merlin's conclusion? There will be no spending time in bed today whatsoever.

"Gaius, I can't," Merlin rants, as Gaius fiddles with some vials by Merlin's bedside, "I have a hundred things to do today, the dragonscale potion needs to be prepared before the next full moon, _which is tomorrow, _and—"

"Merlin, my boy, I will take care of the potion," Gaius says, handing Merlin a small vial containing some kind of bright blue liquid.

Merlin opens his mouth, grasping for something, _anything. _"I need to write a report for Arthur about last week's patrol along the border, the Druids—"

"Can wait," Gaius says, staring at the vial in Merlin's hands meaningfully, "the King will understand. He will last one day without his Court Sorcerer." Merlin honestly doubts it. "Now drink your medicine, Merlin."

Merlin downs the medicine swiftly, grimacing at the bitter taste. "I have a session this afternoon, the pupils—"

"I will take care of it, Merlin," Gaius says, exasperated. He hands Merlin another vial and Merlin stares at it angrily as if it has done something to offend him.

"Drink," Gaius says with a way too enthusiastic smile. Sadist.

Gwen visits him around midday, bringing him lunch and water. The Queen is all smiles and reassuring glances. Merlin flushes slightly as Gwen puts down the tray of food on the bed and says, "just because I am no longer a maidservant doesn't that mean I can't bring you food if I wish it." Merlin really has no answer to that, so he keeps quiet and smiles weakly, eating a few pieces of bread and an apple. He promptly throws it back up a few hours later, but it was worth a shot. But really, he isn't all that sick.

Merlin tries to get some work done over the course of the afternoon, but it proves rather hopeless. Not because he is all that sick, but more because he has a pounding headache. Clear side-effect of having to stay inside all day long. Morgana visits him just before sunset, holding a chessboard when she enters the room and Merlin perks up as he stares at the board with a grin. Morgana glances down at the chessboard in her hands, "Merlin, are you sure you're up for it?"

"Yes," Merlin says desperately, "please, sit down, and play with me. I don't think I can stand reading another text about the different properties of a dragonscale potion."

Morgana smiles. "Well, all right then, but prepare to be beaten. Just because you are sick doesn't that mean I will go easy on you."

"I'm not really all that sick," Merlin tells her and Morgana glances over at the chamber pot situated next to Merlin's bed.

"Is that why you keep throwing up?" Morgana asks curiously. "Because you're not really all that sick?"

Merlin glares at her. He should probably have a servant empty that. Or maybe he should force Arthur. Not that Arthur would. Merlin could _try_ to force him. Plotting is fun, Merlin has recently discovered. Plotting to get Arthur to do stuff for him is even more fun. Morgana plays two games with him before she forces him to rest, he huffs and complains but he obeys her, because Morgana has that effect on people. He pushes away the books and papers spread out all over the scarlet bed covers and leans back against the pillows. He doesn't fall asleep. He does, however, manage to throw up again, horrible dry heaving wrecking through his body and he curses out loud quite colourfully, and he's happy no one is around to hear that.

Right before the dinner feast in the Great Hall is about to begin, Gwaine visits. He enters the room like he always does, with a mischievous grin and a pitcher of the kitchen's strongest wine in one hand. "No," Merlin says immediately when Gwaine perches the pitcher of wine on the table next to the bed. "Not tonight, Gwaine."

"Whoever said it was for you?" Gwaine asks reasonably and Merlin rolls his eyes. Gwaine sits down on the stool next to the bed and fills Merlin's water goblet with wine. "This, oh ye great sorcerer, is for me. You're sick. What kind of a man do you think I am?"

"I'm not really sick," Merlin says, laughing a bit, because _this _isn't being sick, _this _is being under the weather.

"Of course not, you're not sick," Gwaine agrees, nodding, and raises his cup, "here's to you Merlin." Gwaine swallows headily, smiling. "You need to get better. Practice was awful. Arthur was an absolute pain in my— well, in everyone's arses really. He's grumpy and moody and he made us run laps, _laps, _we never run laps."

Merlin listens to Gwaine's ranting with a small smile on his face. They talk about absolutely nothing for a good half an hour and Merlin forces Gwaine to tell all the horrible things he has inflicted upon the castle this afternoon when Merlin hasn't been up and around to stop him. "I talked to Leon last night," Merlin informs Gwaine and the knight raises an eyebrow expectably. "He seems to think you're harassing him."

"Leon," Gwaine snorts and takes a large gulp of the wine before speaking, "Leon is the worst stuck-in-the-mud I've ever met. He doesn't know how to have fun. And he can't take a joke. The man is a complete bore." Gwaine shakes his head. "I wouldn't harass him even if I was paid to do so."

Merlin doesn't bother commenting on that. He doesn't need Morgana's power to see just where the two knights are headed. Merlin's not going to say anything. He's going to let Leon and Gwaine figure it out all on their own. Gwaine stalks out of Merlin's chambers a while later, leaving the empty pitcher behind. A young serving girl enters the room just a few minutes later, holding a tray of food, putting it down on the table with a bow and a quiet, "your dinner, my lord," and quickly disappearing out of the room. The smell of roasted pork, cheese and tomatoes fill Merlin's nostrils and he throws up for the umpteenth time that day.

Arthur rushes into the room a little later, looking flushed, wearing fine black breeches, and a deep red tunic. "My red ceremonial jacket," he says, heading straight for Merlin's armoire and opening it. "I need it, is it in here?"

"No, maybe," Merlin says dully, staring at the ceiling of his bed. "Aren't you late for the dinner feast?"

"Yes," Arthur bites out, throwing out a few of Merlin's shirts, and lets out a yell of triumph before pulling out the red, gold-tinted jacket.

"Arthur," Merlin says reasonably and sits up, "I'm not sick."

Arthur ignores him. "Do you need anything before I leave? Should I send for Gaius?" he asks, staring at the books on Merlin's bed, clearly amused. "Or more books for the great scholar, perhaps?"

Merlin scowls. "Funny."

Arthur smiles, clearly thinking it is. He puts on the jacket and glances at the tray of food on the table with distaste. "Roasted pork?" Arthur asks, incredulous. "You're sick, who on Earth is stupid enough to send up roasted pork when one is sick?" Arthur shakes his head, straightening the collar on his jacket. "I might have to execute the cooks," he says, looking thoughtful.

"You really don't have to do that," Merlin says and swings his feet to hang over the side of the bed, gripping the sheets tightly, "I can eat that, I'm not really all that sick." Merlin looks over at the tray of food, and just the sight of the meat makes him gag involuntarily.

Arthur frowns, glancing at the chamber pot next to the bed. "Right."

"I think I've just lost my appetite for meat," Merlin explains and Arthur gives him a look that clearly states, _you are a big, fat liar. _"Really, Arthur, I can't spend another day like this. I've been working from bed all day, _all day, _do you have any idea how boring that is?"

Arthur just stares at him fondly for a moment. "I'll bring some bread and fruit up from dinner later, now try to get some sleep. I really don't want to deal with a sleep-deprived sorcerer on top of everything," Arthur says, smiling softly at him before rushing out of the room.

Merlin groans loudly and stands up, a wave of dizziness hitting him forcefully. He grabs the bedpost for support. "See, this is what you get for spending the entire day in bed," Merlin says out loud, to himself really, since no one else is around to entertain him. Merlin manages a good three steps before his legs give out. He sinks to the floor gracelessly, catching his weight on his arms. Maybe he is a little bit sick. Merlin coughs harshly, his head suddenly pounding more furiously than ever. He presses his cheek against the cool flagstones and it feels very nice. "I'm not sick," Merlin mutters, not sure who he is trying to convince, himself or the floor. The cold stones feel much more comfortable than the warm heat of the bed so he decides to stay here a bit longer.

Merlin is not sure how long he lies on the floor. The fire in hearth warms his side, but the cold stones underneath him make him sleepier than he's been all day. His dreams are hazy images of horrible roasted pork, Leon and Gwaine trying to kill each other, alive chess pieces and Arthur forcing him to sleep in the stables because "it's for your own good, Merlin". He comes to when the door to his chambers slam open forcefully and he concludes that he must've fallen asleep. His mind is strangely sluggish and he can't remember where he is or why he is lying on the floor, but it is cool and nice. His whole head feels strangely numb and he tries to speak but his mouth won't cooperate. "Merlin, you idiot."

"Yes," Merlin mutters, voice hoarse, into the floor, because Merlin thinks he might be a little bit of an idiot right now. Strong arms lock around his waist and pull him upright. "No," he moans, already missing the cold comfort of the flagstones. "Don't, just—

" Arthur practically drags Merlin back to the bed and Merlin pushes angrily at Arthur's chest as he forces Merlin back against the pillows. "Prat," Merlin whispers, refusing to let go of Arthur's arm.

"Merlin," Arthur says, voice quiet, and Merlin opens his eyes. "Should I call for Gaius?" Arthur asks, looking uncertain.

"No," Merlin shakes his head, swallowing roughly.

"You passed out," Arthur says, exasperated, hand gentle against the side of Merlin's head.

"No," Merlin says, shaking his head again, grasping at Arthur's tunic, pulling him closer. "I was sleeping. I promise."

"On the floor?" Arthur asks, dubious. Merlin pulls weakly at the hem of Arthur's tunic and Arthur rolls his eyes and gets into the bed, pushing some of Merlin's books to the floor. Merlin doesn't bother ranting about it; he only curls deeper into Arthur's side.

"Yes," Merlin says, pressing his face into Arthur's neck. Arthur's fingers are soothing against the back of Merlin's head, gently stroking the hair. "Arthur? I think I might be sick."

Arthur laughs quietly. "I think you might be a bit of an idiot," Arthur says fondly, kissing his forehead.

"It's been established, yes," Merlin mumbles into Arthur's neck.


End file.
